


Truth Falls Below the Ideal

by JayRain



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood Magic, Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:25:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5228582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayRain/pseuds/JayRain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halward Pavus has spent a lifetime cultivating his image and reputation to appear as the ideal Tevinter Magister with the ideal family. Happiness is a luxury no one in Tevinter can afford, but he can act the part. The problem comes when Dorian refuses to do the same. Written for the November minor character challenge in the Dragon Age fanfic group on Facebook. Rated for language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Truth Falls Below the Ideal

_Truth Falls Below the Ideal_

 

_1.  
_

Caladrius is always throwing dinner parties, and Halward and Aquinea are always invited, which means they always attend. It would be social suicide not to, and besides, his staff has some of the better cooks in Qarinus. They spend the night side by side, laughing softly and sneering derisively when appropriate. Aquinea rests her hand on Halward’s arm; her dark eyes shine and her laugh is like a clear bell. Halward smiles and turns slightly toward her, almost protective of his wife: Aquinea of House Thalrassian, his prize, his due as the head of House Pavus. They are powerful. They are envied. They are everything anyone in Tevinter would ever want to be.

And then they get home, where hours later Halward stares into an empty glass. He reaches for the decanter and pours yet another brandy, but there will never be enough. He’s going to have to fuck Aquinea tonight, and there’s no getting around it. His one consolation is that they’ll both be too drunk to remember. Again. _Just once more,_ he repeats to himself as he downs his drink. It’s the mantra he repeats around this time every month. Just once more. She just needs one viable pregnancy and they can put this unpleasantness behind them.

Unless of course it’s a daughter.

But then he’ll just repeat his mantra over yet another empty brandy decanter. _Just once more,_ until they have a son: a scion to carry on the Pavus legacy. It’s a powerful legacy and Halward doesn’t let anyone forget it. But very few in his social circle will let him forget that it’s also a precarious legacy. They never say anything, but he can see it in their looks at parties and dinners and Magisterium sessions: all the places he cannot avoid.

His whole life has been a series of people and places he cannot avoid.

“Master Pavus, Lady Pavus has called for you,” a slave says quietly from the doorway. She keeps her head bowed, not daring to look up.

“I shall attend her shortly,” he says with a wave of his hand. He finishes off the last of the brandy in one swig and sighs. One more thing he cannot avoid. Just once more.

 _Just once more_.

 

2.

At the dinner party, Aquinea is all smiles. “Oh, it’s _lovely_ ,” she says, resting a manicured hand on her bulging stomach. She gazes down at her belly and her dark eyes sparkle. She’s absolutely beautiful. She’s also colder than winter. Impending motherhood has not changed her.   If anything, it’s made her more insufferable.

Her clothes don’t fit, and she hates what her tailors custom create for her.

She cannot wear the bejeweled high heels on her swelling feet; when she tries, she nearly falls over before kicking her shoes off and throwing them at the wall, or the nearest slave. Usually the latter.

Her breasts are swollen and painful.

She is nauseous more often than not, even after the first three months passed; Halward is sure she thinks the Maker is punishing her.

Her midwives advise her against consuming quite so much wine. Halward is sure this is the Maker punishing _him_.

But at least there is no expectation of intimacy, at least for these nine months.

He doesn’t drink as much, not even when Aquinea declares that she simply _must_ go on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. The midwives assure her that she is quite healthy—miraculously so, even. But she insists that she must remain in bed. Halward is fine with it. It’s less that he has to see her, less that he has to pretend that he cares for her.

When he does pray, it is not for Aquinea’s health; it is for the baby inside of her, growing every day, making its mother miserable and keeping Halward on edge. “Please be a son,” he prays. He lights a candle. Donates generously to the Chantry. Prays more in these months than the rest of his life combined. Anything. “Please be a son,” he whispers over the candle flame, closing his eyes and inhaling the spicy incense that fills the prayer chapel.

 

3\. 

She doesn’t scream. She’s in a trancelike state, eyes blank and glassy and unblinking as she stares at the ceiling. She may be in the Fade; she called for lyrium not long ago. A thin blue film covers her lips. He wonders if this may be what Tranquility is like. He could live with her like this. Never mind that she was chosen as his wife not just for her beauty, but for her magical lineage. A lineage she will contribute to this child’s abilities.

Halward checks in from time to time, and eventually just asks the midwife to send a slave for him if he is needed. He sits in his study sipping at weak wine: enough to take the edge off his nerves, but not enough to make him drunk. He wants to remember this day.

He shuffles through paperwork; reads a proposal for lyrium trade reform that’s due to be presented at the next session of the Magisterium. He replies to invitations for parties months out. The reply is a yes; to say no is weakness, even when it’s uncertain how their lives will have changed thanks to the baby. There are always nurses and governesses, after all. He reads perfunctory notes from the Chantry, thanking him for his most recent donations. He can’t even feel guilty about the fact that the money was a bribe to the Maker.

He only hopes that it works. At the other end of the manor house, his wife is giving birth to his child.

 _Please be a son,_ he prays, pouring another glass of wine and wishing it was something stronger.

Hours pass. A slave brings a meal that Halward can’t eat due to his anxiety. His stomach twists and he shivers with nerves. The sun has long since set when one of the midwives raps gently on his doorframe. “My lord, your son is born,” she says. “Shall I take you to him?”

Halward leaps up. His pulse flutters but he smoothes his robes and nods once. “Yes, thank you,” he says and follows her, even though it is his manor house and he knows these halls better than anyone. He does not run; years of carefully schooling his emotions and actions have made it easy for him to resist the urge even though this is his firstborn. His son and his heir.

Aquinea is propped up on bolsters. A slave finishes arranging her glossy hair about her shoulders and then scurries for the shadows. The swaddled baby lies in her arms, screaming, but she barely blinks. She manages to smile. “My husband,” she says at last. “I have given you a son.” She presents the baby to him. It’s all so formal, so staged. She’s too calm, too beautiful.

Halward nearly reaches out for his son but stops, hesitant and unsure for possibly the first time in his life. He glances at the midwife, who takes the baby and hands him off to a waiting wet nurse. As soon as the baby is attached to her breast his cries cease. Halward stands there for time unmeasured as his son is nursed, caught in a dream.

A scribe appears from the shadows. “My Lord Halward, I have been sent by the record keepers to record the birth of your son.” He holds a writing board with an attached inkwell and candle, which sheds flickering orange light on his parchment. His quill is poised over the parchment, ready. “His name?”

Halward looks to Aquinea, whose eyelids droop ever so slightly as she begins to give into the exhaustion of childbirth. “Dorian,” he says decisively. “The boy’s name is Dorian.”

At last the wet nurse hands the baby back to Aquinea, who is too tired or too drugged on lyrium to protest. She cradles the baby in her arms. The boy is beautiful: a shock of thick, black hair; a perfect rosebud mouth, with just the slightest bit of milk still on his upper lip like a white mustache. Dark lashes resting on his rosy cheeks, tiny hands clenched into determined fists.

Aquinea is more beautiful than ever.

For one fleeting moment Halward thinks he may love his wife.

 

4.

Dorian’s magical abilities manifest at a young age. The boy is lighting candles, starting fires, and freezing water buckets and chamber pots by the age of five. His frazzled governess can barely keep up with him, so Halward hires a new one. She lasts maybe a month. So does the next one. Each time Dorian smiles like an angel and Halward forgets that he was ever frustrated with the boy.

“He doesn’t need a governess, he needs a tutor,” the most recent hire says as she packs her trunk up. Even the impressive sum Halward offered her was not enough to encourage her to stay on. “I’m sorry to speak so plainly my lord, but your boy is more than I can handle. He needs to have his magic in check before I or anyone can teach him anything else.” She leaves before Halward can punish her, or offer her an even larger sum that she may not be able to refuse this time.

Aquinea is no help. “Aren’t all children difficult at this age?” she asks, sipping her wine and watching as Dorian tries his latest trick: conjuring a ball of electricity that fills the sitting room with brilliant violet light before striking the metal candlestick holders, the fireplace tools… anything metal that is just there for appearances, to make it look like actual people live there. Dorian laughs with delight and tries again, but Halward waves his hand, casting a weak neutralization charm. Dorian has shown precociousness in his magic, but it is still weak, still uncontrolled and easy to dissipate. For now. It’s only a matter of time until their little terror becomes an actual problem if this goes on unchecked.

“Magister Lucius assures me his son is difficult, but has not yet manifested his magical abilities,” Halward explains. He feels a strange pride that, for all of Dorian’s uncontrolled chaos, he has manifested his abilities younger than any other child Halward has heard of. “This makes Dorian a bit more difficult. It may be time to consider hiring on an enchanter.” Again, strange pride. Enchanters are usually hired when children are older, in their double digits at least.

“He’s just playing,” Aquinea says with a wave of her hand. She pours another drink. It is mid-morning. “Aren’t you just playing, darling,” she says with a silly grin.

“He’s destroying the house,” Halward says.

Another hand wave, a sip of her drink. “They’re just things, Halward. We can afford to replace them. Besides, I’d hoped to redecorate soon anyway. This décor is passé. And isn’t our child’s happiness worth it?” She sets down her glass and holds out her arms, but Dorian instead looks at his hand, concentrates for a moment, and then a ball of flame appears in his palm.

“Look what I can do, Father,” he says, looking up at Halward. The fire reflects in his pale eyes. He smiles, his tiny teeth gleaming like pearls. His face shines with pride.

Halward kneels. “Yes, Dorian, I see. You can do great things. And you will do greater. Would you like to be a great mage?” He cups his hand over the ball of flame in Dorian’s hand and extinguishes it with his own magic.

“Yes, Father. I want to be the greatest mage Tevinter’s ever known,” Dorian says. He meets his father’s eyes, determined to do what he says. Defiant, daring Halward or anyone to say that he can’t do it.

“You will be, Dorian,” Halward promises. “I will see to it myself.”

 

5.

Aquinea doesn’t want to send Dorian away, which is puzzling. She hands him off to any and every servant she can. She takes him to the countryside to go boating, and sits on the shore with a drink while a servant rows Dorian around a small pond. It’s picturesque and lovely and not at all motherly. So when the Circle at Carastes agrees to take Dorian on, even though he’s younger than most apprentices, she actually cries. She throws herself on the bed and sobs, great wracking moans that make her body heave and her shoulders tremble, and Halward almost holds her to comfort her. Almost.

Dorian doesn’t mind. He’s cheerful as the carriage rolls up; he doesn’t mind that a major Magisterium vote keeps his father home, and his mother complains of a headache and can’t see him off. He waves farewell, mischief glinting in his eyes as he conjures one last ball of lightning that strikes a large, overhanging tree branch. There is a tremendous crash as it falls to the ground; the horses whinny and prance and try to rear up in their harness.

“I hope you enjoyed that, Dorian,” Halward says as his son leans out the carriage window to say his last farewells. “You will be expected to learn to control yourself once at Carastes.”

Dorian shrugs. “I know, Father.” It’s a rehearsed answer; he’s bored as he says it. He looks at the road ahead. He wants to leave. Halward feels a pang of regret, wondering just what sort of home they’ve created that their eight year old son _wants_ to leave it without looking back.

“Write often,” he instructs. “Your mother would appreciate it.” Dorian nods, distracted. “Study hard. You represent House Pavus. Do not disappoint me.” His voice is stern. Dorian isn’t looking at him. He’s heard this too often to care anymore.

At first Dorian does write, once a week. He knows the expectation, knows what it will look like to his peers if he doesn’t dutifully tell his family what he’s doing. Halward and Aquinea read the letters together, sitting next to one another on the settee with drinks forgotten, bonding over their absent son. Sometimes she pats Halward’s leg as she wipes a tear away with a silk kerchief. “I’m glad he’s happy,” she says.

“So am I,” he says.

They can tell their dinner guests that Dorian is progressing well ahead of expectation. He is a credit to the House. Their guests smile and nod and shake their heads with the expected envy. The Pavuses are the ideal Tevinter family.

Then Dorian’s letters become fewer, and farther between.

They start receiving letters from the Enchanters at Carastes. The letters home are troubling. Dorian is brilliant, they say. He’s nearly mastered the primal school. He’s exhausting the library’s resources. But socially he struggles. Not hard to believe, Halward reasons. Dorian is a prodigy; he is an Altus child, heir to an ancient bloodline that can trace itself directly back to the Sominari.

At first Halward is inclined to believe that Dorian is only retaliating, defending himself against the older mage children who are jealous of his abilities. He brushes off the smug grins of other Magisters, who’ve probably heard things from their children. They’re jealous; few of them can boast that they are the ideal. And their children are even less so.

And then the day comes when he takes the carriage to Carastes. Dorian sits in First Enchanter Gracchus’s office, feet swinging off the edge of the chair, hands folded in his lap and a stormy look on his face. His packed trunk is on the floor next to him.

“This is non-negotiable, Magister Pavus,” Gracchus says. “Yes, Magister Cicero’s son is older; yes, he and Dorian have had words. But this duel was unsanctioned and unprovoked.”

“Master Caius’s pride was unchecked,” Halward says with a wave of his hand, while inside he is seething. “He should have had the sense to decline an unsanctioned duel.” He gives Dorian a sidelong glance. The boy is far from repentant. He’s angry. And maybe a bit smug? He’s a fine one to talk about pride.

“Your son took advantage of that pride,” Gracchus says. “Magister Cicero has had three children go through this Circle, and is one of our most generous benefactors.” It always comes down to money. “I know you could afford to donate what Cicero does, it’s not a question of your wealth,” Gracchus adds. He sighs. “Dorian injured Caius rather severely,” he finally says. “He’s accelerated through the primal classes. He knew exactly what to do to cause harm.”

“He may not know how to control it yet,” Halward protests. “The entire reason we sent him here at this age was because he could not control himself at home and he needed regimented lessons that only a strong Circle education could provide.”

“I assure you, our lessons are regimented,” Gracchus says. “Dorian has taken quite well to them. Too well. The injuries he caused could only have been done by very controlled use of magic. I’m sorry, Magister. Our only recourse is to expel him from this Circle.”

In the carriage on the way home, Dorian stares out the window, smirking from time to time. “You will apologize formally to Magister Cicero,” Halward lectures. He’s already dreading the next party, the next dinner, the next Magisterium session. The smug grins. The gloating eyes. Halward Pavus’s precious precocious son, expelled from the Circle at age nine. “You will apologize and you will mean it,” he adds. Dorian just swings his legs, bumping his heels against the foot board. “You are the heir to this household. You have a reputation to live up to and to maintain.”

More kicking, more lackluster staring. He is nine going on nineteen.

“This isn’t singeing an Orlesian carpet, or blowing up the candelabra. Those things can be repaired and replaced. Your reputation is more difficult.” Dorian sighs; his breath is a storm surge that wakes Halward’s anger. He reaches across and grabs his son by the chin. “Look at me, Dorian,” he snaps, forcing his son to do so. Dorian is shocked, but still defiant. He tries to pull away but Halward just holds more tightly, fingers digging into his son’s jaw. “You will not embarrass me like this again,” he says. “Do you understand?” He squeezes. Part of him wants to leave bruises. Part if him wants to slap Dorian hard enough to leave a mark.

But there are appearances to keep up.

Dorian stares him in the eye for a long moment, his jaw clenched, his nostrils flared. Finally Halward lets him go and Dorian nods. Oh he understands. Whether or not he will act accordingly is another matter entirely and they both know it.

 

6.

The glossy oil portrait above the mantle is framed in gilt and is the talk of the Satinalia party. “Who is your artist, Pavus? Larissa and I must hire him,” Falco says, raising his glass of ruby-red wine to the painting.

“You’d have to ask Aquinea,” Halward says with a laugh. “She’s the one with the taste in this family. I’m afraid my only taste is for politics.” Falco laughs; he’s a bit tipsy already. Halward hasn’t been stingy with his cellars. This party, this portrait, it’s all a show. Dorian’s been expelled from yet another Circle: the fourth one in as many years, this time Vyrantium. He’s running out of Circles to attend. His reputation precedes him, and not in the way Halward wants it to. He lasted longer at Vyrantium than most: nearly six months this time.

Halward looks up at the portrait: the artist managed to capture Aquinea’s chill, even as she smiles; Halward’s own sternness—he wishes for a moment that he tried to look happy, then decides the patriarch of an Altus house should look stern; and Dorian’s impish smirk.

“Your boy’s fourteen,” Falco is saying. He has another glass of wine. Good. “It will be time to start considering a match soon… assuming he doesn’t run through girls the way he runs through Circles!” He laughs at his own joke and Halward nods politely. Falco is a Magister, but only recently since a seat was vacated by another Magister who died without an heir. Falco is lucky to be here tonight.

“Dorian is treated like a teenager by his tutors and peers in the Circle,” Halward says. “His abilities warrant more rigorous training. Simply put, the boy is bored,” he says. “Enjoy the party, Falco,” he says and takes his leave.

He mingles, playing the humble host. He has hired the finest chefs for this evening; opened up the best vintages; hired the best musicians. There are parting gifts for the guests, as is custom, but they are pricier than the norm for a Satinalia gathering. Halward has made use of his Dwarven contacts to procure jewels and precious metals, and as he passes he listens to conversations.

The latest trade negotiations with Orlais. The situation on Seheron. Lyrium sales with the dwarves. Shipping between ports on the Nocen Sea.

He dares to relax a bit. Dorian doesn’t come up at all.

Where _is_ Dorian, though?

“I thought you’d be too ashamed to have me seen,” Dorian said earlier in the evening, before guests began arriving. He’d dressed in his new outfit, specially tailored for the evening. His wavy dark hair had been styled perfectly, and he needed to shave—an argument Aquinea probably lost. The slight shade of dark stubble made him look older than fourteen.

“You may enjoy playing the martyr, Dorian, but this is an important party with valuable networking opportunities. Given your most recent discipline issues, you need to make an effort to appear contrite. I grow weary of making excuses for your behavior.”

“Then tell them the truth,” Dorian suggested. “Or is the truth really so unsavory?”

“You will behave as your station requires,” Halward told him.

“And if I don’t?”

Dorian is always pushing, always testing his boundaries. Now, hours into the evening, Dorian has yet to be seen. Halward’s heard jumps with hope for a moment when he sees a group of girls chatting and giggling, but as he nears he realizes Dorian is not with them. Odd. Dorian loves being the center of attention. He’s like a peacock, preening and posing for all to see.

“Proximo,” he says, when he finds his head servant. “Find Dorian,” he orders. Proximo nods acknowledgement.

“I shall see to it myself, my lord.” The servant disappears, weaving through the crowds of Magisters and their wives and children, avoiding slaves with platters of finger foods and glasses of wine.

Halward finds Aquinea amid a gaggle of Magisters’ wives. She is stunning in a deep emerald green gown; her hair is a mass of dark curls swept up off her shoulders and held in place by jeweled pins. He approaches and rests his hand on her arm. “My darling wife,” he says and gives her a peck on the cheek. She smiles pleasantly enough. “Ladies. I hope you are enjoying yourselves?” The women nod and titter about, complimenting the wine, the décor… hollow words from hollow people. Halward’s presence makes them uncomfortable though, and one by one they drift away.

“I hope you enjoyed that?” Aquinea says. She purses her lips as if she’s just eaten a lemon.

“I rather did.” He didn’t, but it’s entertaining to gall her. “I’ve not seen Dorian this evening. Have you?”

She looks around as if she’s just remembered she has a son. “He’s around,” she says at last and grabs another glass of wine from a passing servant. “There are only so many places he could be, after all.” She smiles vapidly. “Enjoy your party, husband.” And with that she walks away from him.

There are only so many places he could be in the manor house, and Proximo assures Halward that Dorian is in none of them. Nor is he in the stables or the carriage house, or anywhere else on the grounds. Proximo does not flinch when he tells Halward this. “I can send out another servant to find him, or I will go into the city to find him myself,” he offers. “Attend your guests and I will find Master Dorian.”

Halward thanks him. He pastes on his smile and sees to his guests the rest of the night. He deflects questions about Dorian’s whereabouts with a wave of his hand. “It’s a large party in an even larger home,” he says with a smile. He drinks a bit more to take the edge off his nerves. As the night wears on and guests take their leave he tries to resist the need to take a sniff of lyrium dust.

Aquinea passes out, still in her dress, her makeup starting to smear. The staff begins to clean up. Halward retreats to his study and goes to pour a brandy, then hurls the glass against the far wall. It shatters and shards tinkle to the ground. He drinks straight from the decanter while swearing to the Old Gods themselves that he will flog Dorian himself when the boy is found.

“He was at a house of ill repute,” Proximo says three hours later. The man is tired, and for once seems afraid of Halward.

Fortunately Halward has gotten himself drunk. “He’s a teenager… I can’t fault his curiosity,” he says, his anger forgotten. “Did you pay the matron?”

“Double. And had the records expunged. I may have also dropped some threats you might want to follow through on. At least make a personal appearance there come afternoon to show you are serious, Master Pavus.” Proximo looks nervous for the first time since Halward took him on many years ago.

It piques Halward’s curiosity. “Surely the girl could not have been that ugly,” he says with a laugh.

Proximo clears his throat and stiffens, as if expecting to be struck. “No, Master Pavus. It was actually a boy.”

 

 7. 

Scipio has Carta contacts, and he’s eager enough to cover it up. So eager that when Halward asks for a deal on a vast quantity of pure lyrium, off the books, Scipio agrees and sets up the deal. Halward sends Proximo with a bag full of coin: enough for the Carta, but none for Scipio. Halward instead agrees to vote with him on the next trade accord in exchange for his silence.

But an agreement with Scipio conflicts with his agreement with Darinius, who knows a desperate Orlesian templar by the name of Laertes who will do anything to get his lyrium fix more often… even if it means freelancing his services to an equally desperate Tevinter Magister whose son has run off to Orlais.

Halward will figure out how to appease both contacts later. Right now he has more pressing matters to attend to. It was bad enough when Dorian was merely expelled from Circle after Circle, and he managed to cover up the indiscretion at the brothel a few years back. Now Dorian has run away, presumably unhappy with the recent news of his betrothal.

It’s going to take all the contacts and favors Halward can get to smooth this over with the girl’s family.

“Do not kill him,” Halward instructs Laertes. The chest of pure lyrium sits open on his desk, glowing a soft blue. The templar’s eyes are hungry. He keeps his hands on the pommel of his sword so Halward can’t see them shaking. “Do not tell him who sent you. No permanent damage. None of your southern Tranquility. The boy is my heir, and his magical prowess must remain intact. Understood?” Laertes nods, impatient. It almost reminds Halward of Dorian. “I want to teach him a lesson.”

As the days pass Halward calls in his favors. Donates generously to the Minrathous Circle to apologize for Dorian’s behavior. Spins stories for the Velarias family. “He’s always been headstrong,” he explains over drinks at a fancy café in the capital. “He was just settling into his studies; perhaps I rushed the betrothal process.” He laughs. They nod with pleasant smiles that do not touch their eyes. They’ve heard the rumors.

Halward is not surprised when Antonio Velarias cancels the betrothal. No one is. Halward can only laugh into his brandy while Aquinea cries and drowns her sorrows in wine and lyrium. “It was a perfect match,” she sobs.

“The girl, or the drapes?” Halward asks absently. The shop ran out of the _absolutely perfect_ fabric just when Aquinea had decided what she wanted. It coincided with Dorian’s departure. Aquinea hurls her wine glass at him. He ducks and goes back to pacing and waiting.

He paces his study, the halls, the grounds, and eventually the sitting room where he pauses on occasion to look up at the family portrait. They don’t look happy, but happiness is a luxury no one in the Imperium can afford. Anyone who claims to be happy is either a fool or a bad liar. But the family does look every bit the tailored, pristine Altus family. Someday Dorian will have a similar portrait above his own mantle. Someday he will be a miserable husband and a frustrated father and Halward will look on with smug satisfaction.

Dorian’s return home is less than triumphant. He is bruised and dirty and bound in lyrium-infused cuffs that curtail his magic and access to the fade. He tries to appear defiant but cannot quite look his father in the eye.

Halward wants to feel pity, wants to comfort Dorian and assure him that he didn’t want it to come to this, but Dorian just left him no choice… but then he sees that gleam in his son’s eye. Knows just why he refused the betrothal and why he would rather run away from the Imperium than stay and do his duty and be miserable just like everyone else. Anger boils inside of him. Halward has played his role dutifully through the years. He’s worn the costume, donned the invisible mask. Why should Dorian get to be any different? Why should _he_ get to run away?

He backhands Dorian across the face, _hard,_ with all the force of his anger and resentment. Dorian nearly falls over, but keeps his balance. Halward’s emerald ring slices across Dorian’s cheek. Blood trickles down his face and his pale grey eyes brim with tears that he refuses to shed. He stares at the floor.

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum,”_ Halward hisses. He grabs Dorian by the chin, as he did nearly a decade ago. “Look at me, Dorian!” Dorian cannot quite meet his father’s eyes. At least he has the decency to be ashamed. This time. Laertes told the story of how he caught up with Dorian in a shady tavern that doubled as a brothel. All it took was some strong wine and the word from the serving girl that the young Tevinter lord preferred the male whores, and Laertes was able to lure him.

“You are the key to this family’s legacy,” Halward lectures, long after Laertes has left with his precious chest of lyrium. “You have a responsibility to fulfill, just like I did, just like every Pavus who has come before you. You’re special, Dorian, but not _that_ special.” Blood still trickles down Dorian’s face. He doesn’t even try to wipe it away. He stares at the floor, in pain and still trying so damned hard to be defiant. How can Halward impress upon Dorian just how vital he is to the Pavus family line? “You are our only child. Without you, the family dies. Thousands of years of magic, gone. Dead. How could you do that? Is any man worth that?”

 _That_ has an effect. Dorian dares to glance up at his father. “And if I say yes?” he asks.

Halward strikes him again, hard, across his son’s smirking, foul mouth. His lip catches on his teeth and splits open and blood runs down his chin and drips onto the floor. Halward collapses into a chair and holds his head in his shaking hands. He can feel his own tears, his own frayed nerves. He wants to swig brandy straight from the decanter again, like the night Dorian disappeared from the party.

He folds his hands in his lap and sits up straighter. Dorian kneels on the floor, trying so hard to be stubborn and proud and true to himself and Halward both resents and pities him. Dorian knows too well what it is to be honest in Tevinter, knows too well that he can’t expect to be happy in life. The best he can do is cultivate an image and pretend, the way Halward and Aquinea have for so long. “I love you, Dorian,” Halward says softly. “You are my only child. My son and my heir.” Dorian does glance up, confused, afraid. Halward sighs. Perhaps he’s been taking the wrong approach all this time. Tevinter custom has led him to be harsh; in reality, softness and affection, so rare and unexpected, may have been a better approach. “I know it doesn’t seem like it after this, but it is for your own good. You need to learn, Dorian.”

“Maybe you do, too, Father.”

Halward is too tired, too defeated to strike him again. “I will pretend you didn’t say that,” he says. He kneels on the floor beside his son. He reaches toward his face and Dorian flinches back. Halward’s fingertips glow with a faint white-blue light and he trails them over Dorian’s cheek and touches Dorian’s lip. He turns his attentions toward the lyrium burns on his son’s wrists. At last he stands.

“Your mother was worried,” he says. “You will clean up and present yourself at breakfast and tell her you returned of your own volition.” He turns his back and heads for the door of the study, leaving Dorian kneeling on the floor, alone with his defiance.

 

8.

Gereon Alexius was never a very big name in the Magisterium, possibly because he believes in reform that will never happen, and spends his leisure time doing research that most in the Magisterium and in the Circles consider frivolous and fanciful at best; a waste of time at worst. But when he inquires about taking on Dorian as an apprentice, Halward can’t argue. Dorian has been made a full Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle: the youngest in centuries. Even in spite of his… indiscretions there is talk of him becoming Archon some day. Aquinea does what she can to cultivate favor with Radonis, who, thankfully seems more interested in Dorian’s magical prowess than his lack of social graces.

“I will sponsor him in return for his assistance,” Alexius promises. “He will be as a second son to me. Only one of his brilliance and insight will do,” he adds.

“He possesses those in abundance,” Halward agrees. “But do not let him know I said so? His arrogance is already insufferable,” he adds with a smile as he shakes hands with Alexius, brokering yet another deal to keep his son in line.

This agreement, however, is almost a relief. Dorian is agreeable to the apprenticeship, eager to apply his learning. He’s always loved reading, absorbing knowledge like the sea sponges they harvest off the piers of Qarinus. Halward now has a viable excuse for why Dorian is not yet married off, and why he is not actively seeking a betrothal.

Honestly, Halward needs a break from the matchmaking. It’s only been two years since the Velarias disaster. No one wants to enter an arrangement yet, as if afraid Dorian will run again. Though Halward hates how it reflected upon him and the Pavus name, at least the Velarias family suffered some, too, which deflected the shame a bit from him. Aurelia has since been married off to a lesser Altus house. That’s something, at least.

He visits Minrathous regularly to check in on Dorian. He has become close friends with Felix, Alexius’s only son. He is bright-eyed and excited about his work. There are no reports of unsavory behaviors. Dorian seems… happy. And much as Halward is relieved that this is working out so nicely, he feels the sting of envy in his heart. Dorian ran from home and defied his father at every opportunity. Here, he hangs on to Alexius’s every word, follows the Magister’s directions, chatters excitedly about their research.

He has a better relationship with his mentor than he’s ever had with his father.

“Minrathous agrees with your son, Pavus,” Falco says. He clearly approves, and Halward smiles proudly. Inside the bitterness seethes and turns his stomach. He is a talented mage as well: as much as, if not more so than Alexius. Dorian should be learning from him now, should be discussing theory and application with his father.

“You know Dorian, Falco; everyone knows he’s always been larger than life.” Halward smiles. He’s not lying for once, and amazingly, the truth appeases his fellow Magister. And it makes him feel even bitterer when he boards the next ship bound for Qarinus. Dorian doesn’t see him off. Important business with Alexius, he says.

“We’re on the verge of something groundbreaking. Or Fade-tearing, choose your metaphor,” he says with a bright smile. And then he looks over at Alexius, who clasps Dorian on the shoulder and bids Halward farewell as Dorian disappears into the Alexius manor without a backward glance.

It stings as badly as if Dorian had slapped him.

 

9.

All Dorian can do when he’s home for the holidays is talk about the great ideas for reform that he and Alexius have. “The Imperium is in danger of collapsing from the weight of its own decadence,” he insists. He twirls the end of his perfectly trimmed and styled mustache. He’s grown into a dashing young man, and is, by all reports from Alexius, the center of attention from most of Minrathous’s young ladies.

“Dorian, darling, don’t waste your youth and your looks on such dreams,” Aquinea says, reaching across the table to pat her son’s hand. “I’m sure Alexius fills your head with great ideas; but at the end of the day we all have a duty to the Imperium that usually does not involve reforming it.” She cuts her meat into tiny pieces and takes a long time chewing tiny bites that she washes down with more wine than is necessary. Still, Halward is impressed by her insights. It’s been a long time since he’s cared to hear anything she’s had to say.

“Your mother is right, Dorian.” If they both present a united front, perhaps that can corral their son’s ambitions.

“I wasn’t aware that being miserable was a duty, Mother,” Dorian says with a smile as he takes a leisurely bite of his dinner. “Or that the Magisterium was so bent on maintaining status quo, Father. You led me to believe that it actually wanted to accomplish things.”

“We do, Dorian. You should know that Alexius’s views are in the minority in the Magisterium. We simply do not have the resources to make such lofty visions a reality.”

“You mean you do not have the interest in trying.”

Halward maintains his composure. “When you are a Magister you will understand. Until then I cannot summon the energy to argue with you.”

Dorian laughs and drops his fork with a clatter. “I’m not sure I’d care to be a Magister, Father.”

“It is your duty and it is non-negotiable,” Halward says. “As is marriage.”

Dorian shoves his plate away, appetite gone. “I’d really rather not. Don’t think I haven’t noticed just how miserable _you_ both are throughout the years.”

“It’s not about love, Dorian,” Aquinea says. “It’s about duty. Preserving the line, and making alliances. This is the Imperium, love. Blood matters here.” She dabs her mouth with her napkin and excuses herself. “My appetite is quite gone, I’m afraid,” she says with a smile, even as she glares icy daggers at her son while she drains her wine glass.

“Livia Hirithinous is an excellent match,” Halward says, more to break the ensuing silence than to convince Dorian. He’ll never convince Dorian. They both know it.

“I’d rather you’d arrange a meeting with her brother, if it’s all the same to you.”

Dorian stares across the table at his father, daring him to react.

Halward could lock him away in the manor house. He could have the Minrathous Circle confine him, sentenced to translate until his seat in the Magisterium is ready. He could revoke Dorian’s research fellowship with Alexius.

But all any of that would do is make Dorian even more defiant, even more daring and determined. No, Dorian will never do his duty; he’s never wanted any of it. Power, wealth, prestige… he could be the voice the Magisterium needs to hear; he could be the youngest Archon in history.

He’d rather take on the world on his own terms.

“You go too far, Dorian,” Halward says, getting up from the table. He sequesters himself in his study, where he opens up his liquor cabinet. He takes out both the brandy and the scotch, but does not drink any. He’d love to, but his mind must be clear for this. He removes the pendant from around his neck and uses it as a key to open the hidden panel in the back. He pulls out a worn, plain book.

It pulses in his hands with secrets and power and temptation.

Blood magic is the Imperium’s worst-kept secret. Halward is certain other Magisters have used it, and anyone who accuses them has miraculously been revealed to be the actual maleficar. He has seen it cause more problems than it can solve.

But he is desperate.

He has one problem that nothing _else_ will solve.

 

10\. 

It is cold in Ferelden, colder than Halward ever thought possible. He wears layers of fur and leather and sips on Antivan brandy so that he won’t expend his mana trying to keep himself warm on the long carriage ride to Redcliffe. When they received the Revered Mother’s letter, letting them know Dorian’s whereabouts, Aquinea cried tears of gratitude while Halward was panged with regret.

One choice made in one night sundered his family. All he wanted was to keep up appearances; to make things easier for Dorian to do the same. All he did was drive his son away, possibly forever. Dorian hates him, and has every right to.

Of course Dorian would join this Inquisition; it’s the biggest movement to sweep across Thedas since Andratianism itself nearly a thousand years ago. Dorian can’t resist something that advocates for change. And a chance to study the gaping green hole in the sky can’t hurt, either.

Halward is too nervous to consider the breach deeply. Proximo offered to go, as a retainer of the family; at the last minute Halward decided that he needed to see his son. If Dorian is to disavow his status as a Pavus, Halward wants to see him one last time. He still loves his son. Still wishes Dorian would come home, would settle down. He still knows that will never happen.

When he finally does see Dorian, he wants to embrace his son; but Dorian hangs back by the door of the rustic tavern, pale grey eyes narrowed and glowing staff held out before him, ready to strike. The Inquisitor, he must be the Inquisitor, stands beside him, clutching a gleaming bow and glancing between the two men.

“I only wished to see you again,” Halward says. The anger in Dorian’s eyes is real. The hurt is real, the wounds of his betrayal torn open again by Halward’s presence. “The years have not changed my love for my son.”

Dorian scoffs. “Even after you preached against blood magic for my entire life… and then tried to use it to change me the moment you realized I would never be your precious heir? You and your fucking legacy. You don’t deserve a legacy after that!”

“Dorian, please,” Halward begs. “I only wanted…” What _did_ he want?

“To see what a pariah I still am? That I’m still not quite good enough for you? Well here I am in all my outcast glory, father!” Dorian grins wildly.

“I only wanted to hear the sound of your voice once more,” Halward says at last. “I betrayed your trust and my own convictions because of my own pride. We were the ideal family, Dorian. Unfortunately the truth… I should have accepted it. I’m sorry.” Dorian stares at him. The Inquisitor seems uncomfortable. Halward sighs. “I understand if you cannot forgive me.”

Dorian’s lips quirk up in a grin. Halward has seen that defiant, cool grin so many times through his son’s life, and he knows this will probably be the last time he ever sees it. “Then I’m glad we are in agreement,” Dorian says. He turns and leaves. The Inquisitor lingers for a moment, looking upon Halward with something akin to pity.

On the carriage ride north, Halward recalls not Dorian’s angry glare; he fully anticipated that, and yes, deserved it. He recalls the Inquisitor’s pity. Halward has been feared; he’s been hated; he’s been envied. But never pitied. And yes, he realizes, he deserves that, too.

Ideally, Dorian would be accompanying him home. But Halward has spent too long cultivating the ideal. He’s focused on all the wrong things, and been blinded to the truth.

_Verum infra idealis._


End file.
